St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(98)
Berlin nodded. Nodding was what he’d been doing a lot of over the last few days. Everybody was sorry, that was what they said, or they said nothing or they crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him and to avoid having to say anything at all.
‘You should go and see your mother, Peter, she needs you.’ He handed him the bottle of whisky. ‘Can you take this inside too, please?’ Berlin offered Collins a cigarette. The corporal shook his head.
‘No, thanks. Gave it up.’
Berlin lit his cigarette. ‘Me too,’ he said. He was surprised to realise he was using Bob Roberts’ lighter. ‘How long has Peter been a sergeant?’
Collins seemed surprised by the question. ‘About a month, I guess. Could have been an officer but he knocked back the offer of a field commission. Silly bugger could have been on the next plane out, nice and safe and comfy, doing the officers’ course at Duntroon, getting turned into a shiny new second lieutenant, but he said no. Reckoned he’d just take an extra stripe if it was all the same to the army. Being a sergeant was good enough for his old man, he said, and that was good enough for him. Besides, he didn’t want to leave the blokes. Said no to the MM too.’
Berlin felt ashamed that he hadn’t even known Peter was a corporal.
‘MM?’
‘Military medal, didn’t he mention it?’
‘He writes to his mother. I know he leaves things out, things that might worry her.’
‘I suppose we all do that. I suppose you did too, in your war, I mean.’
That was true. ‘What happened? With the promotion and the medal.’
‘Just an ambush that went a bit pear-shaped. We bumped into a bunch of nogs where there weren’t supposed to be any, a big bunch. Our lieutenant and sergeant were put out of action in the first couple of minutes of the contact and the VC split the patrol. I got cut off with half a dozen blokes and Peter was an acting corporal so he sorted things out.’
‘Sorted things out?’
‘Formed a perimeter to protect the wounded, called for support then he went out and rounded up me and the rest of the blokes and brought us back inside the perimeter. At least, that’s how he tells it.’
‘And how do you tell it?’
‘If I was writing the citation I’d have said overwhelming enemy force, intense fire, coordinated attack, outstanding leadership, heroic behaviour above and beyond – you’d know how it goes. Saved us from getting our arses shot off is the short story and there isn’t one bloke in the unit that doesn’t know it. Should have been a Victoria Cross not a recommendation for the MM, truth be told.’
‘Wayne.’ Peter’s voice came over the side gate. When they looked over the gate Peter was in the middle of the backyard, standing in the shade of a tarpaulin stretched over the Hills hoist. He had his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and they were standing together with Lazlo and Maya.
‘Wayne, come on inside, I want to introduce you to my mum.’
Berlin pointed to the pathway to the porch and the front door.
‘Probably easiest going that way. Thanks for bringing my boy home.’
Collins shook his head. ‘It’s the other way round, Mr Berlin, Charlie. I’m only here because of him and that’s the God’s honest truth.’
Wayne Collins walked up to the front door and carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat before going in. Berlin had a sudden vision of the porch ten years back. He had come home from the local shops with a paper bag full of cakes and the long-gone Pip panting and straining on his leash. There had been two hearses parked in the street that morning, right outside his house. Berlin had panicked but it turned out it was just Laszlo in one of his many former lives, bringing someone round to meet him, someone with information on a case.
Laszlo had been standing on the porch waiting to greet him that morning, a cup of tea in his hands. He’d just been studying Rebecca’s framed pictures of Peter and Sarah in the hallway he’d said. Berlin remembered Lazlo telling him he was a very lucky fellow. Berlin also remembered something else Lazlo had said about the children, word for word, all those years ago.
‘Sarah will be a heartbreaker, and Peter will be a man, you mark my words.’
FIFTY
Outside in the cold, midnight blackness the four engines rumbled steadily, taking the aircraft to its destination. Inside the plane Berlin was wide-awake, restless. In the window seat beside him Rebecca was sleeping, or he hoped she was. When she was awake she took little interest in her surroundings and she had only picked at the three-course meals served to them on fine china by white-jacketed Qantas stewards. The food, like the service, was restaurant quality but even Berlin had little stomach for it. The cocktail trolley had been a temptation but he knew even that was never going to numb this particular pain.
He undid his seatbelt and stood up. Ahead of him down the narrow aisle was the first-class galley and beyond it the cockpit. He turned the other way and walked towards the rear, past the curtain and the bulkhead that separated first class from the tourist section of the 707. There were three seats on either side of the centre aisle, as opposed to the two-by-two seating in first class. Every seat was taken and the overhead storage shelf that ran the length of the cabin was packed with folded overcoats, hats, make-up cases and small suitcases.
Most of the passengers were sleeping, seatbacks reclined and pillows and blankets arranged in whatever manner worked for them. Lights from several of the overhead consoles illuminated passengers who were reading or smoking or having a late-night drink and a game of cards.